


Dear

by aquamanisnotuseless



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "thinking? thats for squares" -arthur morgan, Fix-It, Gen, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix It, Unreliable Narrator, lots of luv between arthur and the gang (hopefully), spoilers for like the whole game p sure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-06-10 21:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19516741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquamanisnotuseless/pseuds/aquamanisnotuseless
Summary: When he hears Dutch’s voice, whispering and muffled, he’s certain he’s in hell. When he hears Hosea's -- that's when he gets confused.Or, Arthur dies, then wakes up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to connanro for telling me the word "bastard" exists and for giving me the correct spelling of "gravelly"

Arthur dies cold. 

He wakes up cold, too. 

At first, he thinks it must be death, for only in death did he not expect to hear the rattling of his own lungs attempting to force oxygen into his body. Perhaps they got it wrong. Perhaps hell is freezing rather than burning, a reminder of the absence of life. 

When he hears Dutch’s voice, whispering and muffled, he’s certain he’s in hell. When he hears Hosea's -- that's when he gets confused. 

Arthur opens his eyes and takes a breath, marveling at the lack of pain. He wakes slowly, almost as if afraid that if he moves too quickly he’ll be taken from this world where his lungs work and Hosea is alive. Hell is turning out to be a lot nicer than he thought. When he shifts his body he doesn’t groan. He plants his feet against the floor he feels the cool wood grains on his toes. 

He sits there and breathes for several minutes, astounded by the simple act. How could he have forgotten how easy it was before? How it felt to not be dying? 

He’s interrupted by a quick knock on the door, and Grimshaw pokes her head into the room. “Smarten up, Morgan! Half the camp is already packed. Grab the O'Driscoll boy and load him onto Williamson’s wagon,” She snaps. 

Arthur rushes to action without much thought, always one to want to avoid her wrath.  _ Both in death and in life,  _ he supposes. It isn’t until he’s walked into the stables and sees Kieran that his mind catches up to him. 

Kieran’s head is attached to his body, slumped slightly in sleep. Arthur has thought that seeing it detached would have been more distressing, but based on his reaction he guesses hell knows better. He stumbles, and lets his knees slide against the hay and ice scattered across the ground. Kieran’s eyes are closed, but he can see that the sockets are no longer empty. He knows that if he opened them, green eyes would be staring back at him. In fact, they are. Kieran’s whole body is tensed in fear, feet now planted firmly on the floor, watching Arthur warily. 

It’s at this point that Arthur realizes three things. One: this probably isn’t hell. Two: he’s pretty sure he was dead a few minutes ago. And three… Maybe it’s not too late to save everyone. With this knowledge, Arthur promptly passes out, falling the rest of the way to the cold stable floor of Colter, his face directly hitting the frozen horse piss that rests there. 

____________________________

He wakes up briefly to the hazy sound of people arguing and of stone grinding against stone. He feels a damp cloth across his forehead and when his hair sticks he remembers how he used to keep it longer before he got sick. Too many nights waking up in a puddle of sweat made him march his way to the nearest barber and shave it all off, not bothering with looks anymore. Arthur coughs briefly, and laughs at how nice it is to cough without feeling like death itself. Through the haze of what he knows can only be a concussion, he hears Hosea’s voice attempting to soothe him. He laughs all the harder, tears now falling from his eyes. He’s in Coulter, his hair is long, and Hosea is tending to him like some type of nursemaid. He sees a blurry outline of Hosea through his tears and realizes that at some point his laughter had changed to sobs.  _ When did that happen? _ He wonders in passing, letting all of the pain he’s felt leak out of his body as it struggles to breathe once again. Arthur doesn’t care enough about appearance anymore to worry about what people might think of this display. If he’s honest, he doesn’t think much at all. Once his sobs have drifted away, Hosea’s voice soft in his ear, he allows his exhaustion to put him to sleep once more. 

____________________________

It’s the third time he wakes up that he finally has his head screwed on right. He also has enough of his head to realize how hard it’s throbbing. The wagon he’s in bumps and he groans in time with the body lying next to him.    
  


“At least my story doesn’t involve getting the scar from frozen horse shit, asshole.” John rasps, his face starting to crack into a smile before he lets out a high whine from the action, halting him. 

Arthur can’t help it. He laughs even as the motion makes his head throb more. “You ain’t lookin so high and mighty from over here, Marston.” Arthur goads, touching his face anyway to check the damage. It doesn’t feel any worse than things he’s got from tavern brawls. He’s right though, the cut on his head will probably scar. 

John grunts instead of replying, probably learning his lesson from the last time he tried. 

Arthur reckons that he and John are in a wagon specifically for people recovering from injuries. He finds himself itching to get up, move,  _ work,  _ but the more twitchy he gets the more he realizes there isn’t much he can do. As far as he can remember, the worst thing to happen on their way to the camp near Valentine was the wheel falling off the wagon. There’s not much to change, and besides, not much he remembers. It was truly that unnoteworthy. Still, he can’t get over the fact that he's not  _ doing  _ enough. That  _ he’s  _ not enough. What’s he doing here anyway? He tried his best once before, what’s more of nothing gonna do? 

He notices John twitching out of the corner of his eye, tiny grunts falling out of his throat in time with the bumps of the wagon along the road. His brow is slick with sweat, tense from fever and the wounds gorging his face and chest. Arthur grabs a rag from a nearby bucket and starts to wipe the sweat and new trickles of blood that started to bubble. “If you grind your teeth any harder you’ll chip that roguish smile you spent all that time tryin’ to perfect in my shaving mirror.” He says. 

John chuckles softly. “I was sixteen, you bastard.” 

Arthur opens his mouth to reply when the canvas opens and Tilly sticks her head in. “Oh! I just came in to tend to John’s injuries. Do you have it?” she asks.

Arthur grunts a bit, making his voice a bit more gravelly as to not sound soft. “Uh, yeah. Yeah I got it."   
  


“Well alright,” she says, starting to jump off the wagon again before pausing. “That’s mighty kind of you, Arthur. Never figured you was the type.” 

Arthur mumbles a bit of nonsense in reply and waves his hand at her retreating skirts as he turns back to tending to John. He takes his time, carefully cleaning and wringing out the cloth he’s using. The stitching looks awful, and even without his future knowledge, Arthur would know that it’s going to scar based on the swelling and puss straining against the black thread. John has forgone talking in lo of staring at him out of the corner of his eye, almost wary. The same look Kieran had worn, as if he was looking at someone he wasn’t expecting to see. 

It’s at this time that Arthur realized that, supposedly, only yesterday Arthur would have left John to the wolves if it were up to him. He wouldn’t have really, but he had tried his hardest to give that impression. Someone who wanted John dead wouldn’t be tending to his wounds. John doesn’t say this, but Arthur feels the question radiating out of him in waves. 

Arthur knows that he’s not a kind man. That he’s not a  _ good  _ man. But it's here, in an old canvas wagon, that he realizes that he’s got a whole year to try to be. He can do these little things. Things like tend to John, help the girls with stitching and  _ listen  _ to them as they listened to him. He can  _ try _ . He can do  _ better _ this time around. He will.

He has to. 

___________________________

They finally arrive and Arthur manages to convince the group to let him help with setting up and unpacking. It takes them the whole day. By the end of it Arthur is exhausted, but the time gives him time to think about how he’s going to make things better this time around. He’s obviously going to try and save those who died. Lenny, Sean, and Keiran all died before their time. They’re practically kids. Hosea is like a father to him, of course he’s going to try and help him. And Dutch… Arthur doesn’t know what he’s going to do about Dutch yet. He’s here. Standing in his tent smoking a fat cigar as his decorative pelts get hung up behind him. He sees two people: The one who stepped on his hand as he lay dying, and the man who taught him the meaning of family. He yearns for that man again. If he was brave enough he’d call Dutch his father, but he’s a coward, afraid of the man he knows he’ll become. He gives Dutch a nod as he walks around, but doesn’t initiate anything more than that. 

It’s when he’s walking one more round around camp to make sure everyone’s settled that he sees Kieran again. He’s tied to a tree, because of course he is. He’s still thought of as an O’Driscoll right now. God, his arms must be killing him. Arthur remembers suddenly that he still hasn’t eaten anything. He’s been given drinks every once in awhile, but nothing else. If he remembers right, he wouldn’t have eaten for several more days now if everything were to stay the same. He’d also catch a cold from the chill air at night. Damn, how had Arthur not cared? 

He waits, awake on his cot, for everyone to fall asleep. It’s only an hour more before the last of the gang tuck in for the night, exhausted from the long day of unloading. He then takes one of his old jackets, a can of peaches, and a couple of plain crackers he has stolen from the old O’Driscoll base and takes them quietly to the tree where Kieran is tied. He’s quiet enough that even Kieran is sleeping, tear tracks drawn through the dirt on his cheeks.

Arthur feels guilty when he wakes him. Kieran’s eyes are wild and he jerks awake, screams muffled by Arthur’s hand planted firmly over his face. Arthur holds a finger to his own lips in a shushing gesture, and Kieran nods frantically. 

Arthur removes his hand and speaks. “First, I know you ain’t been runnin’ with Colm long enough to know much that’ll be useful. Second, when I untie you you’re gonna tell no one and let me tie you back up before morning. You know how good I am with lasso from  _ personal experience _ , so I  _ expect _ ,” he says, leaning in close and pointing a finger in his face for emphasis, “for you to  _ goddamn listen to me.” _

Kieran’s nods become so frantic that for a second Arthur muses that is could fall off from all the abuse. He catches himself and sobers. 

“Now I’m gonna cut the ropes, so go ahead and stretch so you can eat and put this jacket on.  _ Under  _ what you currently got so that no one sees, got it?” Arthur says, getting yet another nod from Kieran in response. 

Once released, the exhale that’s released more resembles a sob than a sigh. With good reason, too. Those ropes were tight enough to cut flesh, and the blood must have stuck. “Alright, jacket or food first?”

“Food, please, sir. I can’t thank you enou-“ Kieran starts as he rubs at his wrists, but Arthur cuts him off with a hand and the can of peaches shoved in his face. 

“Hush. Can’t have no one wakin up, can we?” 

“No, sir,” Kieran whispers back in a comedically low voice. He tentatively reaches for the peaches, almost as if afraid that it’ll be thrown to the ground. Arthur vaguely remembers someone in camp doing something similar to him and simply hands it to him. 

It’s not a pretty sight. Kieran is obviously ravenous, and quite literally starving. 

“Sh sh sh… slow down, boy. Or none of it will be able to stay down,” Arthur says, unfortunately speaking from experience. After he had been tortured by Colm’s men, eating was hell until he could get his stomach back to normal. It would be hard to explain away proof of Kieren eating if it was splattered all over his clothes. 

After he eats a good amount of peaches Arthur has to help him with the jacket because his shoulders are so jacked up from being tied for so long. Arthur can’t decide if it’s fortunate or unfortunate that Kieran is skinny enough for both jackets to fit comfortably. When that’s settled, he hands him the packet of crackers. As he munches the crackers as quietly as possible, Kieran finally musters up the courage to talk to him again. 

“S-sir? Why are you doing this?” He whispers. The question throws him for a second, but before Arthur can collect his bearings, Kieren continues. “I… I just mean… I can’t wrap my head around why you’d try so hard to make me scared of you… but then turn around and be kind to me in secret.” 

Arthur holds his hands up and says, “I don’t know, if I’m bein’ honest. I just don’t think you’ve given us enough reason to treat you the way you’ve been treated.”

“Well… thank you. Truly. I don’t know how much longer I might’ve lasted on that there tree.” 

Arthur winces. “I am gonna have to tie you back there soon, you know that right?” 

Kieren grimaces but nods his head, accepting his fate. He gives his shoulders a few more stretches before standing. “I reckon you might be mighty tired, mister. I’m ready.”

Arthur stands as well and ties him more carefully than the person who had tied him previously. 

“Sir?” Kieran asks. 

“Hm?” Arthur hums in response, focused on the knots. 

“There’s a base. I don’t know if Colmes there still, but I know he was. It’s called Six Point Cabin. If you go there, don’t forget to check the chimney. That’s where they keep the money. But that  _ all  _ that I know. I  _ promise you. _ ” 

Arthur nods. “I believe you,” he says. 

_____________________________


	2. Uh-Oh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Arthur decides that thinking is for losers.

The next few days are bustling with activity, much in the same way as last time around. Arthur spends the mornings finding out ways to get food and money, and the nights making sure Kieran has supper and time to relieve himself. He wants to be able to have him walk around camp sooner this time around, but in order for Kieren to eat with the rest of them, he needs to make sure camp has food to begin with. There’s also the medicine that they desperately need to be able to afford for Jack’s cold, John’s infection, and Charles’ burn. Arthur collects a few bounties, and on the fourth night of sneaking Kieran food, he tells him his plan on getting him untied for good. 

Arthur waits for Bill to be on guard duty and collects Hosea and Dutch. He hopes with the absence of Bill’s thirst for blood and with the addition of Hosea’s calm presence that Kieren won’t get as big of a scare. Once he has them all in one place he nods to Kieran and goes “Now why don’t you tell them what you told me.” 

Kieren nods and repeats what he had said a few nights before, except with a few more utterances of the word “sir” thrown in there from his nerves rattling his senses. 

“And how do we know you’re not lying, O’Driscoll? For all we know, you could just be leading us into a trap.” Dutch says, playing the angry, off the rails leader to a T. Arthur hates that what once amused him now makes him so uneasy. 

“Now wait just a minute, Dutch,” Hosea starts, and Arthur is glad that he brought him. “We can just take him with us. if they welcome him back, we shoot him. If they shoot at him, then he’s telling the truth.” 

Retract that previous thought. Arthur immediately regrets bringing Hosea. 

Kieren sends a pleading, panicked look at Arthur and he can only shrug in reply. His pants are still on, so at least that’s better than last time. Still, Arthur steps in. “I’m not certain it’s a wise idea to give those bastards any reason to suspect an ambush. I say we get in there nice and easy and hit ‘em hard and fast before they have time to scramble for a gun.” 

Hosea places a hand on his chin and seems to think about it. “Less likely for any casualties on our end, I suppose. Sure. I’m in.” 

So they go. Much of it is the same or similar, except Hosea replaces Bill. Arthur can’t exactly remember how it went down originally, although the end result is the same. The O’Driscolls lie dead on the floor, and the Van Der Linde's remain alive and well. It isn’t until the gunfire has ceased and they start looting the bodies that events change drastically. 

“Arthur and John, you two see what you can find out here. I’ll take the O’Driscoll and clear the cabin.” Hosea says. 

Arthur is so wrapped up in his automatic obedience to Hosea that he forgets the important event of this day. By the time he remembers, he shoots up, yelling out, “Hosea  _ wait-“ _

A gunshot goes off. 

The sound of a bullet lodging in flesh and a body hitting the floor echoes in Arthur’s ear. Another shot rings out, as John quickly takes out the O’Driscoll in the doorway, Arthur too shaken to respond quickly enough. 

Hosea, Kieren, and the O’Driscoll are all laying on the floor. Arthur rushes to their side and sees Hosea with a shocked expression on his face, staring dumbstruck at the bleeding man on top of him. 

“What happened?” Arthur asks. Placing pressure on Kieran’s upper collarbone to try and stop the blood flow. 

“Well I opened the door and a man with a gun popped out. I’d of been done for if it weren’t for our prisoner here jumping between us.” Hosea says, adjusting his body into a more dignified position before directing his attention on Kieran himself. “Now what could possibly motivate you to do that, I wonder?” 

Fuck, Hosea, now is not the time to be creepy. The man is already bleeding out, for heaven's sake. Arthur lifts his hand from Kieran’s clavicle momentarily to tear his bandana from his neck to try and put pressure on the wound. 

“Does it matter? You’re alive, and unless we do something, he isn’t gonna be much longer. Help me get him back to camp.” 

Hosea and John look at each other, seeming to have an entire conversation that Arthur wasn’t invited to with just their eyes. Neither of them move, and for a moment Arthur wonders if they’re going to leave him, like Dutch did. He feels, suddenly, as if he’s the one who’s been shot as his stomach drops outside of his body. He feels like a visitor in his own mind, no longer understanding what the rules of this world are. Arthur can’t take another member of his broken family looking at him like he’s lost his head. 

But then the moment is over, and both Hosea and John rush to action to help Arthur. 

They discover together that it was barely a shot, mostly a graze. Although the location of the wound is dangerous, and the amount of blood cascading down Kieren's neck is worrisome, Hosea says that as long as the blood stops soon he should pull through. Arthur would have liked more time to get Kieran bandaged properly, but the telltale signs of the law came quickly in the form of the sound of hounds barking. They get him on the horse in front of Arthur and as they finally clear the trees he hears the quiet voice of Kieran groan, “Aw, no… We forgot to get the stash from the chimney…” 

Arthur can’t help but let a surprised laugh fall from his lips and hope that that’s a sign that he’ll be okay. That they’ll both be okay. 

_______________________________

Arthur lets Hosea take the reins talking to Dutch so that he can get Kieran treated and stable. Hosea must have either liked him or trusted Arthur enough to convince Dutch to let Kieran stay untied for the night so that his wounds could heal. Arthur heard the sound of their arguing through the thin white canvas of Dutches tent, but his brain was so lost in how he reacted to Hosea and John that he didn’t pay much attention to the specifics of it. He just wasn’t expecting such an extreme reaction to such a simple thing.

The next few days Arthur feels like he’s being pulled in more directions he can handle. Half of him making sure Kieran isn’t killed in his sleep, half keeping the camp supported, and half making enough money to get out of Valentine. Now Arthur may not be a mathematician, but even he knows that that’s too many halves. It’s because of all of this that Arthur forgets the glaring problem in just living how he did before with only minor changes here and there. 

Micah. 

Lenny rides in like a man on fire and just as panicked, hollering about Micah held in Strawberry same as last time. Arthur is lost enough in his thoughts on how to handle it that when Dutch tries to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder to get his attention, Arthur flinches. Dutch continues as if he either doesn’t notice or is willfully ignoring his reaction, and Arthur desperately hopes it’s the former. Arthur used to be jumpier, back when he was first picked up, and had taken pride in the fact that he no longer needed to flinch at his father figures. Dutch had been proud of that, too. It’s unlikely that this would be forgotten. 

Still. He has to listen to Dutch. Even now, he’s trapped by an obligation to a man who he knows will leave him for dead twice. Arthur knows that the rational desire would be to listen to his pea-sized lump he calls a brain and tell Dutch that Micah can rot for all he cares. The rational thing would be to get out and take as many people as he can with him before they can die for Dutch’s so-called  _ plan.  _

But part of Arthur is still 15 years old, looking up at the man who saved him from his sad sack of a father. 

Arthur hopes that part of Dutch still is the man that he remembers as a boy. The kind of man that steals from the rich to give to the poor. The man that would do anything for his family. 

So Arthur goes. 

But not until after he gets Lenny completely and thoroughly smashed, of course. 

He had planned on stopping around the second or third beer and just hold the bottle so that Lenny doesn’t catch on, but by the second one he had started  _ thinking _ . He doesn’t much like thinking, so he had another. He started thinking about  _ Dutch, _ so he ordered a round of shots _.  _ He started thinking about Hosea, John, how he reacted during that one moment that Kieran was shot... and Lenny of course. God, Lenny. Arthur loves Lenny. He can’t lose Lenny. Lenny... is good. He’s a good man. 

“ _ You’re _ a good man!” Lenny slurs in response to Arthur’s accidental drunken declaration, “Hey Arthur,  _ Arthur…”  _ he whispers, comedically low. “ _ You’re  _ a good man. Hey bartender! You’re a  _ good man mister bartender, sir!”  _

Arthur hiccups and takes another drink. “Y’know, Lenny… I tried. I tried real hard Lenny.  _ Lenny.  _ But what did that get me? Death is dumb, Lenny. Dying? It‘s rottener than… than something rotten. What’s the point if I have to do it all again? If I- if I get more people shot, y'know?” 

Lenny nods, but appears to get dizzy, so he just rests his head on the sticky bar top and nods it there. “Eggs.” He says sadly. 

“What?”

“Eggs are rotten.” He’s crying now. “Eggs… that never got a chance to be a chicken…” 

Arthur starts crying too. “ _ You’re  _ that egg, Lenny… you never got to be… to be…”

“A chicken.”

“Yeah. A that.” 

“Chickens are nice.” 

“They’re okay.”

“Yeah.”

“But Lenny.  _ Lenny.  _ You gotta chicken. Promise me you’ll be a chicken this time.” Arthur begs. The image of Lenny lying prone on that rooftop worms its way into his mind, making him squeeze his eyes hard enough to see spots so that it leaves him alone. He’s gotta be able to…  _ fly.  _ Arthur is proud of his analogy and goes to tell Lenny about it when Lenny responds to his previous statement before Arthur can speak. 

“Who’re you callin’ chicken? I can fight as well as any of ya.” Lenny is now looking up enough that Arthur can actually  _ see  _ his nose squished by the table. Squish. What a silly word. Arthur shakes himself. This is  _ important _ . He thinks. Probably. What was it? Oh yeah. Lenny. 

“No, no, no no no I don’t mean… I mean. What I  _ mean.  _ Is that. Micah. He’s a that.” 

“A chicken?”

“What?” Arthur asks, not understanding. “No, a rat. Where’d you get chicken from?” 

“Okay, I’m confused. And tired. Are you tired? I’m tired” With that, Lenny starts to take off his vest. Or, he attempts to. His arm gets caught in the hole and he can’t seem to figure out how to get it  _ out  _ of said hole. 

The two stumble their way across the street to the hotel. 

“Wait,” Arthur says, stopping them in the middle of their treacherous journey. “We’ve... we gotta go to the jail first.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. It’s what happened last time.”

“I don’t want to, though.”

“I don’t either. I don’t want last time to happen again.” 

“Then let's go to the hotel, then”

They go. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When morning comes, Arthur once again decides that he hates alcohol. 

_____________________________

After sending Lenny off to camp, Arthur heads to Strawberry to finally deal with Micah. 

Part of him wants to skip meals because of last night, but when he starts to feel woozy enough that he worries he’ll fall off his horse he caves and eats a pack of stale crackers. It sits like a rock in his gut for reasons probably not relating to the hangover, but he guesses that it’s best that he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall face first into the dust while confronting Micah. He’s done that once and doesn’t quite feel like doing it again anytime soon. Especially when the last time ended in his actual death. 

Fuck... Micah. Or, alternatively,  _ fuck _ Micah. Arthur doesn’t even have the beginnings of a plan on how he’s going to deal with him. He’d rather just let the man hang, but then he’d have to explain to Dutch why he let him down. He’d have to explain how he let a  _ brother  _ die when Dutch let his own  _ son-- _

Arthur doesn’t let himself finish that thought. He can’t afford to think like that. He can’t afford to let it get to him. He needs to live in the now.  _ This  _ Dutch hasn’t done anything to warrant suspicion yet, other than his odd fondness with Micah. 

By the time he arrives in Strawberry he was so focused on  _ not thinking _ that he forgot that actually needed to come up with a plan. Arthur supposes he could get Micah out,  _ not _ give him a gun as he’d quite like to avoid getting the whole town shot to hell, and think of a way to deal with him in a more absolute way at a later time when he’s not as hungover. 

He just forgot how annoyingly punchable Micah’s face is. 

“You hear me? My boys are comin’ for me, and when they do, we’ll burn this hick town to the ground!” Arthur can hear Micah scream from his cell. 

“No, we ain’t,” Arthur says, grabbing the steam donkey hook and attaching it to the bars. 

“God, Arthur, is it good to see you. I can’t wait to get out of here.” 

“Not so fast,” Arthur says and holds up a finger, not being able to help taking advantage of the situation just once. “I wanna hear you say you’re sorry.” 

“Sorry? For what, murderin’ the guy? I ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.” 

“You don’t know what you’re apologizing for and I intend to keep it that way. I just wanna hear you say it.” 

Micah rolls his eyes. “What, is this some kind of fetish of yours? A gross fantasy? Now, turn it on!” 

Arther fakes a yawn and lets himself slide down the wall into a resting position, tilting his hat over his eyes for the full effect. “Y’know, I reckon now is a good time for a nap. When are you scheduled to hang again? Within the hour?” 

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, you sick fuck. Let’s go!” 

“Fine,” Arthur says, turning on the machine. Even he doesn’t know why he wanted to hear it. It’s not like it makes anything that happened better. It doesn’t make Arthur forget everything he lost. All it does is make him madder at himself for letting him get away with it. Here is even now, letting him out of jail instead of just  _ letting  _ him die. Arthur feels sick, and he tries to tell himself that it’s the hangover. He doesn’t quite believe it. 

“Great! Now quick, give me a gun!” 

“You don’t need one, we’re getting out of here by running, not shooting.”

“But--” Micah starts.

“No buts. We’re doin’ it my way. Besides, I don’t trust what you’ll do with it.” Arthur says, checking to see if anyone noticed the now giant hole in the wall of the jail. “Alright, now we just need to sneak 'round the back and--” Arthur’s sentence is cut short as a rock connects with his head, the last thing he sees is Micah’s dumb punchable face drawn into a scowl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoy! let me know what you think :D


	3. Dutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is NOT dead. 
> 
> Well... at least not any more than he was at the beginning of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting, folks! I WOULD like to note a warning to those who might need it that there are some apathetic thoughts about suicide in this chapter. If you would like to skip any and all hintings at it, feel free to stop after the line break.

Arthur is genuinely surprised that he doesn’t wake up upside down. In his defense, that tends to be how it goes when he’s knocked out with blunt force trauma. Still, he’s grateful that he appears to be on solid ground at least. He doesn’t have any particular desire to open his eyes, as he assumes that the throbbing in his skull would worsen if he exposed his eyes to light. Arthur wonders how many times he can get hit in the head before his body dies on him. Would he come back again, if he died? Is that his punishment, his hell, perhaps? To live over and over again, slowly watching as his family crumbles to dust around him? 

Arthur once again decides that thinking is for other people, not fools like him. Let the academics use their brains; Arthur is just fine using his fists. 

Still, he’d rather know where he is than not. Because of this, he opens his eyes, fully expecting to see Micah’s dumb face. He instead is faced with the pleasant view of dust lit by sunlight, pine trees back-lit by the setting sun. 

The unpleasant part are the bars separating him from the lovely sight. He’s in the cell that is still intact, of course. But the hole in the wall is still there across the way. Arthur thinks about the chill that would surely come from there in the night momentarily, but he’s shaken from his musings by a voice to his left. 

“Ah, you’re finally awake. Maybe that rock to the head’ll teach ya not to stand too close to the wall when you break your murderer friends out of jail,” an unfamiliar voice says. 

“He ain’t my friend,” Arthur says before his judgment could catch up with him, too frustrated by what happened to try and play a con. He turns to look on the man on the other side of the bars. He’s young, younger than he should be considering that he’s the sheriff. 

“Ah, so you did break him out. Thanks for the confession. Hey, I’m pretty good at this sheriff business!” 

Shit. 

“What, this your first day or somethin’?” Arthur grunts, annoyed at getting in trouble for Micah’s messes. 

The man’s face falls. “Yes, actually. The previous two were shot by that fellow that you let out. Them and about two dozen others. He’s a mean fellow, he is.” 

“You’re right. He is. Slimy, too.”

“Why break him out, then?”

“Never said that I did,” Arthur says, angry for breaking Micah out at all. 

The young sheriff scoffs and turns away, apparently done with the conversation. Arthur stands up and starts to pace, already antsy to get out. He never liked being stuck in one area for long and was quickly feeling as if the walls surrounding him were getting more and more confining. For the first time in weeks, Arthur realized that he has nothing to distract himself. 

He was alone with his thoughts. Thoughts he’d much rather ignore in lo of working, letting sweat and exhaustion drown out any semblance of brain activity. 

It’s in the next few days that he finds himself thinking about Dutch. Arthur knows that he had killed the woman in Blackwater, despite all of his words on how we don’t work like that, Arthur and we only kill who needs killing. In Coulter, when he had finally been curious enough to ask, he had assumed that Micah would be the one to have shot her. Even back then, he knew that Micah was ever one to shoot first and ask questions later. Micah was reverent to chaos of his own design, raptured by it. The desire to both tear down and be recognized by a greater authority fed Micah’s love of anything that disrupted peace, he was overcome with the high it gave him. 

Arthur hates him for it. Hates that Dutch fell victim to such silky words as if Dutch has never played the same con. When he was dying he yearned for the Dutch he knew before. Now that he’s here… he’s not so sure there’s much difference between the two. They’re the same man, after all. Maybe it’s something Dutch can’t control, something he’ll always be fighting. Maybe Dutch loves the illusion of righteousness like Arthur loves the illusion of stupidity. 

‘Cept my thick head ain’t an illusion, Arthur makes himself think, ignoring the spike of fear in his gut of thinking one of the forbidden thoughts. There’s a short list in his head of thoughts he’s not allowed to think much on; he can’t afford the upheaval of his lifestyle if he dared ponder them for long. 

Two days of mild insanity later, he hears a voice that makes his stomach leap into is throat. Arthur stops his breathing and strains his ears to the sound and the boisterous laughter that accompanies it. 

“Hello, good sir! I’ve come to express my deepest regret on what terrible tragedy has befallen this here town. Here, a gift! For all of the hard work you must have been doing in the aftermath of this terrible event.” Dutch croons, his voice thick and sweet like honey. The perfect trap for unsuspecting flies. 

Arthur shoots to his feet and is at the bars like he’s a cat whose nap was interrupted by a misplaced foot, his heart pounding a mile a minute. Why was Dutch here? Was he… breaking him out? 

Dutch hadn’t broken him out in ages. Why would he start now? Why after Micah had already had gotten the chance to pry his grimy fingers into his head? Micah was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid. The smart thing would be to tell the gang that Arthur had died in the rescue, then let him hang. 

Shit, why didn’t Arthur say that he died then let him hang? 

He pictures Dutch’s disappointed face directed at Arthur and remembers why he broke Micah out at all, upset at his own weakness and dependence on Dutch’s approval after all that had happened. Almost forty years old and still he yearns for his father's approval and shys from the chargin that comes with the sadness in his gaze. 

Arthur stays at the bars for the full twenty minutes that he can hear the two of them talking, occasioning hearing the tell-tale crack of Dutch’s voice. It’s muffled, and Arthur wishes that his heart would quiet down enough to understand the words Dutch is saying. 

The voices start to slow and the creek of bootsteps descending down into the basement where Arthur is kept falls on his ears. 

“Sorry ‘bout the wait, didn’t wanna shoot up this town any more than it already has,” Dutch says, wiping his hands on his pants as if socializing with the naive cop made him feel dirty, somehow. Like the common man was beneath him. 

“What are you doing here?” Arthur can’t help but ask. 

Dutch makes a face that is somehow both bemused and offended. “Arthur, you wound me. You didn’t actually think I wouldn’t come looking for you, did you?” He places a hand on his chest in a joking manner. 

Arthur has a flash of memory of being strung up like a dead bird and a burning shoulder, of stumbling into a camp full of people who didn’t even seem to realize that he was gone. “Nah,” He says instead, cutting off that train of thought. “I was just messing with ya. Course you’d come. Now open these bars, been feelin’ itchy from being cooped up for so long.” The words feel like ash in his mouth. He hasn’t wanted to talk to Dutch. Talk to him like this. As if nothing is wrong. As if he knows nothing of what’s to come. 

Dutch flashes the keys at him before swiftly unlocking the cell. As they exit the building he sees the sheriff passed out over his desk, a half-full glass of whiskey rested near his hand. 

“Is he dead?” Arthur asks as he pushes open the doors. 

“No. Although he probably will be soon if he doesn’t learn to not trust every man who brings him a bottle of whiskey.” Dutch mounts his horse and collects his reigns before settling his gaze back on Arthur, not making any move to head back to camp without him. Arthur recognizes a silent order when he sees one, but tries to get out of it anyway. 

“Well,” Arthur says, “Better see if I can bring back a deer or something before headin’ back.” 

Dutch nods. “I’ll join you.” 

Arthur tilts his head so that his hat covers the vaguely panicked look that he most certainly has on his face. “I know you’re probably busy,” he starts to say.

“Nonsense! I’ve been needing to get out of the camp for a while now. You and me, we're just not meant to stay locked in one spot for long.”

Arthur laughs convincingly, he knows he does, but it still rings hollow in his ears. He feels like an observer of his own body, watching his younger self go through the motions of a loyal son. 

They hunt, tracking a small herd of deer, but every time Arthur goes to line up a shot he remembers Dutch is right over his shoulder and… 

“Gah!” Arthur curses softly as he misses another shot with Charles’ bow. Dutch is still by his horse watching him with a thoughtful look on his face as Arthur roughly picks up his rifle and shoots two terrible shots into the deer. The pelt is ruined, but they have meat and Arthur can finally leave this awkward father-son field trip that he’d accidentally roped himself into. 

“Alright,” Arther says as he hefts the deer over his shoulder. “Let’s head out.” Dutch helps him tie the deer to his horse without comment. 

It’s not until later, during a silence that feels much too loud that words are spoken again. 

“Arthur.” Dutch states. It’s just his name, but Arthur feels like he’s been caught already. Like Dutch knows everything. “I can’t help noticing that you’ve been… different around me recently. Now I don’t know if something happened or if I’ve done something but—“

He stops. Arthur doesn’t look at his face. He wants to, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

Then Dutch’s voice breaks. It’s a tick of his, he knows it is, but it makes him lock eyes with the man who raised him nevertheless. “You work hard for everyone here so that we won’t need saving. Just know that we’re here if you end up bein’ the one who needs to be saved.” 

Arthur wants to respond. He opens and closes his mouth, no words coming out, before eventually settling on keeping it closed. There’s a lot of things that he could say in response to this. “Why didn’t you save me before” is one of them. “I don’t want any help you have to give is another. There’s another that he feels deep within is bones said by the scrappy kid he used to be, freshly picked up by Dutch. “Please. Please, I don’t wanna fight anymore. I don’t have anything else to give.” 

But he doesn’t say any of that. He says absolutely nothing.   
_______________________________

Arthur would be pleased with the fact that Micah seems to be staying away from camp this time around as well, but he can’t quite muster up the energy for it. He performs the rest of his tasks mindlessly. He checks on Kieran and notes that he hasn’t been murdered in his sleep. However, it’s obvious he isn’t taken care of as well as he would have been if he was literally anyone else, and has largely been neglected in Arthur’s a sense. Arthur checks the wound, rebandages it, and gets him a serving of Pearson’s stew. Kieran is babbling his thanks when Arthur notices Sadie staring out near the cliff edge, her feet over the ledge. 

Sadie was a mess the first few months that she rode with them, and she had every right to be. Arthur remembers what it was like losing Isaac and Eliza. He wasn’t in love with her, but he loved her as much as any of the girls that they rode with. Isaac on the other hand… his death hit him harder than he had expected. 

Arthur knows that whatever he does, Sadie will still grieve. Nothing will change that. He tries to convince himself that there’s no point going over there as he serves himself some stew. Arthur is a mess, anyway. How the hell is a broken man supposed to help a broken woman?

His heart aches, and he ladles out another serving of stew, cursing how soft he’s become. He’s even more grumpy at himself as he adds a couple of herbs he’s picked for flavor to hopefully make it less bland. Person's stew is plain as it is, but grief can make even the most delicious of meals taste like how the color beige looks. 

He wordlessly drapes his feet over the ledge next to her and passes her the stew. She doesn’t look at it nor him. 

“I’m not hungry.”

He peers at her face and her still expression. It’s not twisted in anger, sadness, or mourning. It’s as flat as one of those pricey porcelain dolls that are advertised in the windows of Saint Denis. It’s blank, and not carefully so. No, it’s the face of someone who’s feeling absolutely nothing. Empty. Hollow. 

Dead. 

“Let me guess,” Arthur goads, “You weren’t hungry at breakfast, neither.” 

She glares at him. It’s pitiful, compared to the ones she used to dish out in another life, but it’s there just the same. There you are, Arthur thinks. 

She picks up a spoon and puts the smallest bit of broth to her lips before setting it back down. Arthur doesn’t push it.

Arthur sits by her as the sun sets behind them. His bowl is long empty by now. Sadie had managed to eat a good fourth of hers, and Arthur is proud of her. She’s picked out all the peas to eat, leaving the meat and carrots to chill. It’s in the comfortable silence that Sadie starts to speak. 

“I’ve watched you, y’know. On the off-hand occasion that I bothered to look up. You’re always runnin’ around. Keepin’ busy. Sometimes you do nothing in a way that looks like something, for no reason at all,” Sadie muses aloud, her gaze locked not on the sun-kissed clouds but at the craggy rocks below. There’s a long pause before she continues, quieter this time. “You ever think about just stopping?”

Arthur has the sudden desire to move camp to a place that’s not on a cliff edge, but he answers honestly. “Would be easier, I suppose. Resting. Stopping.” He looks at her to gauge her reaction, “Dying.” 

Her far-off look confirms his suspicions. He could talk to her about death. About the simple exhaustion of staying alive. How he wonders each night as he goes to sleep if his death will finally stick. But he doesn’t. Sadie doesn’t need that. She was there for him when he needed support, he could be there for her. 

“Sadie,” He says before he can think to call her Mrs. Adler. He continues anyway. “I won’t claim to know nothing about your husband and the kind of man he was. But if he loved you even a quarter of how much you must have loved him… then I reckon he’d want you to… to… he wouldn’t want—” Arthur doesn’t quite know how to finish his sentence. He’s not much of a wordsmith, and much less so when he has to try to speak aloud. Arthur curses his ineptitude as he tries to verbalize what he wants to say. 

“I get it, Mr. Morgan. I won’t… well.” She doesn’t bother faking a smile for him as she stands, clearly intending to head to her tent that she shares with the girls. 

“Yeah. I get you.” He says, waving as she goes.

Arthur hasn’t acknowledged it until now. How he feels every time he closes his eyes for sleep was something that he tended to suppress as soon as it was felt. It’d be nice, he supposes, to not have to worry about living anymore. He hadn’t lied about that. He looks down at the rocks beneath him. 

No, best not to. 

Arthur glances again at her now cold carrots and meat as he cleans up their dinner. He’ll have to be sure to keep the camp well-stocked on peas in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asifdgskfdg hey guys im alive. If you wanna know how crazy my week was just know that I wrote this entire chapter in the DMV. Hope you guys have had an awesome week and let me know what you think in the comments! Tbh I'm not sure I would have written this far if you all hadn't been so supportive, so thank you! 
> 
> also, ugh, writing is hard. I'm much more comfy with a sketchbook than a laptop. oh hey maybe i should draw fanart for my own story..... hm. would that be too much?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for being patient! just so yall know, it was your guys comments that kept me writing this. I had run out of fuel but you guys telling me how much you guys like it made me fight through the imposter syndrome! so thank you! all of you!!

Arthur stares at the opened paper clenched in his fist, not reading it. Tilly was long gone after handing it to him. She had gone down to the post office that morning and was now passing out everyone’s mail as they had their morning coffee. He faintly hears John’s quiet “Thank you,” to Tilly as he’s handed a letter. Arthur is too lost in his own thoughts to be thinking about who’d be sending John letters in the first place. But John wasn’t why Arthur was so out of sorts.

It was Mary. By the first word Arthur instantly recognized the handwriting, and the entire letter that he’d had memorized resurfaces in his mind. He stares blankly at the sheet in his hands.

He hates that he doesn’t hate her, hates that instead of anger he feels only tremendous sadness. He  _ wants  _ to be mad at her, he knows he should be, but no matter how hard Arthur tries he can’t bring himself to feel it. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Hosea says softly, after Arthur spends far too long staring at the letter in his hands.

Arthur startles. He’d forgotten the world around him, that he’s by a campfire and not by the seclusion of his cot. Luckily the only other person nearby that wasn’t him or Hosea was Charles. Charles minds his business, pretending not to hear as he methodically makes more arrows. Arthur nods in response to Hosea, appreciating the fact that he could be honest about it with the company he’s in without worry. Hosea has the manners to pretend he hadn’t just read the signature, Arthur has the manners to not mention it, and Charles has the manners to pretend that three feet is enough distance for a conversation to be had in private. Arthur always liked Charles. 

Hosea clears his throat before asking his next question, just as carefully as the last. “You think you’re gonna respond?” 

“Nahh,” he says, and it’s in that moment that he knows he’s a liar. 

He manages to hold off for a good thirty minutes. He drinks his coffee, makes sure Sadie at least has food in her hands, and chops up some more wood for a campfire. Still, it’s not long before he finds himself on her front porch, his hat clutched to his chest to be polite. When Mary exits the door Arthur finally feels like he can exhale. Here she is. Arthur hates that he still finds her beautiful, that his heartbeat quickens when he sees her. But he came here for a reason, and he intends to follow through. 

“Mary,” He says, “You look well.”

“Hello, Arthur,” She says. Her voice sounds sad. Arthur wonders if she really is sad. He wonders if any of her feelings have ever been real. 

“You wrote to me. You need my help, I reckon.” 

“I… Yes. I do.” She’s confused by either his bluntness or his accuracy.  _ She’s disappointed that she hadn’t gotten to have the upper hand, _ part of him thinks. The other part of him says that he’s being too harsh, says that nothing she’s asked for is out of line, that they’re both at fault for the end result. She’s  _ allowed _ this, to try again. 

Maybe she really is sincere. 

Arthur reckons he’ll never know for sure. He tries to tell himself that the wondering won’t eat at him. He knows that, once again, he’s a liar for thinking it. 

She tells him about her brother and the cult that he’s gotten himself caught up in, and Arthur is silent the whole time she talks. When she finally asks for his help, Arthur says his part. 

“Mary. I’m only here to tell you that…”  _ That I think of you every day. That I wish I could go back farther just so that I could have never met you. That I never want to see you again and yet I long for what we used to be. That I hate you, and I love you. _ “I’m just here to tell you that I’ll do one more thing for you. Just one. If this favor is what you want, I’ll do it. But I won’t do anything else, Mary.” 

Mary looks at him like she’s never seen him before in her life. He holds her gaze, unyielding. Slowly she brings up a hand to his arm. Arthur takes a step back before she can touch him. It’s small, but it’s enough. It gets the message across. Mary looks heartbroken. 

“You’re hurt.” She breathes out as she speaks. Arthur pulls his eyebrows in confusion, wondering if he’s accidentally grabbed a shirt that still has blood on it before she continues. “I  _ hurt  _ you. I knew… I didn’t realize how much. I’m… I’m so sorry Arthur. I…” 

Arthur feels his heart clench at finally having the answer to the question of her sincerity. It still hurts. Why did he expect it to no longer hurt? Why did he think the mystery of it was the cause of the pain? Instead of his own suffering being relieved he instead feels both of their pain multiplying with each other, twisting into a mess of anguish that feeds on itself. He came here to be free of her and instead he feels even more stuck than before. 

Mary lowers her arm and cradles it, clutching her own fingers in a self-comforting gesture. It makes her appear smaller. “I understand. I’ll leave you alone.” 

Arthur nods, curt, professional, and walks down the steps to his horse. As his foot enters the sturrup Mary calls out to him. 

“Did you mean it? You’d still do something for me?” She’s leaning over the railing, farther out than what’s considered safe, a searching look in her eyes. 

“I would.” 

_ “Why?” _ She pleads, genuinely not understanding. 

Arthur doesn’t respond. The answer isn’t something he can teach. 

He got two answers that he never had the first time around, two answers he hadn’t expected to have in any life. The first is that Mary genuinely believed that she loved him. The second is that love was something Mary never truly understood. 

He urges his horse forward, allowing her to go at a slow pace. He’s not very eager to get to camp just yet. His head feels fuzzy, and he tries to tell himself it has nothing to do with Mary and everything to do with getting knocked out with blunt force trauma twice within only a couple of days. He vaguely thinks about going to a doctor but dismisses it immediately. If he was going to die due to medical issues again he’d rather not know about it. 

A coughing fit is what gets his attention away from his thoughts. To the left of him, he can see a man in a straw hat clutching his chest as he wheezes. His other hand is grasping at a small booth to keep himself on his feet. Arthur is off his horse and by the man’s side in a second. He recognizes that kind of cough from his own experience. Tuberculosis is a bitch, so the least he can do is help prevent the man from falling face-first in the mud. When the man finally starts to gain his bearings Arthur pats his shoulder and starts to ask if he’s alright before his breath is stolen from his lungs. 

Thomas Downes. 

“Ah, thank you, Sir, for your help. I’m afraid I almost got much more acquainted with the ground than I would have liked.” Downes gasps out. 

Arthur wants to say a normal parting phrase and leave like any sane person, but instead, he just blurts out “You have tuberculosis,” because he’s probably the dumbest man on the planet. _ Fuck. _

Downes winces. “You are correct, sadly. A family member of yours had it, I take it?” 

“Something like that,” Arthur mumbles. 

Downes straightens up, finally getting all his breath back. “How’re they? Did they…?”

“Dead.” He states. 

“Ah. I grieve for you, then. You’ll have to forgive me for hoping for a better outcome. I fear I won’t have much longer, now. I have yet to hear any stories of recovery.” 

“Mr. Downes?” Arthur cuts in suddenly. “Have you had any dealings of debts with a Herr Strauss?” 

“I… Pardon me? How did you…?” 

“Please, just answer the question.” 

“Well. A blunt question requires a blunt answer, I suppose. Yes. Although, how you would know that I have no idea. “

“How much?” 

“Excuse me, Sir, but you’re asking me quite a few more questions than I would like about this.”    
  


“I’m an associate of Herr Strauss. You fit his types of victims to a T, and I intend to absolve this debt before he asks me to collect. Now  _ how much do you owe? _ ” 

Downes stutters out the answer and Arthur departs like he’s being pursued by a bear. 

_ God, _ using his intimidation voice on Thomas Downes was never how he expected to use the second chance he was given.  _ Guess I’ll just always be a peice of shit,  _ he thinks, frustrated at his own inadequacy.

______________________

The very same day Dutch finds Josiah Trelawny in town, so they all head to Blackwater to rescue Sean. Arthur rides with the gang instead of meeting them there like last time, hoping to save a few of Sean's teeth this time. He had wanted to go after him sooner, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain how he knew that Sean was even alive in the first place. Going alone would have just resulted in Arthur’s death, and Arthur didn’t have any desire to cause any unpleasant ripples.

Still, Arthur couldn’t stop the thrum of anxiety under his skin about the mission even though it’s something that he’s done just fine before. After all, the past couple of missions have been different.  _ Nothing _ has been exactly the same. Arthur might not be able to remember every detail, but the larger changes have stuck out like sore thumbs. Keiran’s shot, Sadie sits by him more, Mary’s question, Micah got the drop on him, Dutch… 

Arthur still hates thinking about Dutch. 

He hadn’t told anyone at camp what Micah had done. He doesn’t think anyone would believe him. He’s not quite ready for the camp to kick him out at gunpoint again, he’d rather save as many people that he can before it gets to that. Part of him wonders if it's early enough, if his past self’s loyalty is strong enough for him to be trusted over Micah. 

Turns out he has no need to worry about rescuing Sean. Sure, it probably doesn’t go exactly as it went last time. But the only injury that came out of it is Javier’s twisted ankle from stepping on a rock wrong while pushing the bounty hunters up the mountain. They got Sean, made a few jokes, and quite literally rode off into the sunset. It was all very dramatic.

The party that ensues was full of just as much booze as last time. Arthur warmly notices that Keiran had appeared to have been dragged to the largest group by Hosea. Although his shoulders and knees were drawn in close, Arthur sees that crooked smile that he wears whenever he makes a cheeky remark right before the group laughs. Arthur made a point that night draw Sean laughing by the fireside as everyone drinks themselves to romanticism. This time the page isn’t tarnished by blood in the form of graphite. He draws a lot of gang members that night. He draws Miss Grimshaw showing a small smile for once. He draws Hosea as he watched Dutch dance with Molly, a sad look in his eyes even as his mouth is smiling. Lenny, Molly, Keiran… he draws them all, wanting to carry them with him before it’s too late.

Just as he plans on closing his journal and getting ready to turn in, he spots Charles in the woods. Charles’ back is towards the camp as he gazes into the trees in a meticulous manner. Bill was supposed to be on watch tonight, but he’s already knocked out, drunk snores coming from where he’s sleeping outside his tent. 

Arthur doesn’t know what would have happened to Charles after Arthur died. He hopes that he lived on, happy, a good man. Charles did a lot for Arthur during his darkest moments. Arthur knows that if Charles asked him to do anything, he’d do it. Where Dutch is blazing forest fire in his leadership, calling the attention of everyone around him, Charles is a quiet stream, bringing life wherever he goes. He’s a source of inspiration, really. In many ways, Charles was who Arthur modeled himself after back when he was trying to change before the black in his lungs caught up with him. 

Arthur debates with himself, rubbing the leather of his journal before making a decision. He sharpens his pencil quickly and efficiently, marches to a sturdy log by Charles, and seats himself down in front of him, sketching away. Charles gives him a thoughtful and vaguely startled look at the deliberate proximity. “What are you writing?” 

“‘M not writing,” Arthur replies, his tongue sticking out through the side of his mouth a little in his concentration.

Charles chuckles. “Drawing, then? I didn’t know you drew.” 

Arthur looks up from the beginnings of his sketch in surprise. “You didn’t?” Arthur hadn’t realized how little they had known each other at this time. Sure they didn’t talk much in the beginning, but he’d forgotten that technically they’re not even friends yet. Arthur is glad for the darkness as he feels his face heating up from his forgetful mistake. Now he just looks  _ silly. _ Arthur makes his voice a little rougher and coughs before saying, “It’s not a secret. Now stop turnin’ your head so much, faces are hard enough as it is.” 

“I’ve got to keep watch,” Charles protests lightly, but Arthur notices him keeping his head steady and watching mainly with his eyes nevertheless. He appreciates it. When he finishes his drawing he writes a small description on the side.  _ “The protector for the night.”  _

Arthur taps the pencil to his lips and allows his thoughts to wander to the future that will never come to pass. He pauses for a moment, places his pencil back to the paper and firmly scratches out  _ “for the night.” _

This time around, Charles won’t have to protect anyone from him. In helping him become a better man, Charles saved not only innocents that would have been caught in Arthurs wrath but also Arthur himself. Charles will always be someone that Arthur will be thankful for. Hopefully, with time, Arthur will be able to be there for Charles when he needs it, too. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had based the talk with mary plus the emotions around mary on personal experience. I had arthur say no to her in my playthrough for the very first quest. Everything that has to do with mary hurts me in a way thats more personal than it should be tbh. Because of that, I dont hate her, but the feelings she brings are always sad. 
> 
> that being said, everything about her is told from arthurs pov, which should always be taken with a grain of salt.
> 
> Update as of 5/11/2020: howdy folks. I stopped updating bc I finally finished the game and I was so heckin depressed by it. Yup! I wrote fanfiction about major spoilers that I hadn’t even gotten to yet! I started this fic when I was still in chapter two because I was a weenie who didn’t want these characters to die, so I wrote them NOT dying. Well, I’ve finally felt emotionally ready to pick up the game again, so you might get some updates again soon! If you’re reading this, lucky you! You didn’t have to wait through my hiatus, haha
> 
> Also, do I ship Charles and Arthur? Yes, because I’m gay and they deserve good things. Will I write them acting on romantic feelings in a physical way? Probably not, as writing that kind of stuff flusters me a bit. The only thing this fic will have higher ratings for is probably me describing gore in too much detail later on, and even then I probably won’t do that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mostly writing this for me, but if this is something that people wanna see I'll be happy to post more :) let me know what you guys think!


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